


Come Home

by psuedopoetic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Mostly Canon Compliant, Newt (Maze Runner) Lives, Post-The Maze Runner, Season/Series 01, Stiles Stilinski is Thomas (Maze Runner), teen wolf/the maze runner
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:49:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24739519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psuedopoetic/pseuds/psuedopoetic
Summary: Scott and Stiles had been best friends since they were little kids. They knew everything about each other.Except for the year that Stiles went away to "boarding school" on a scholarship. Scott always thought it was a bit odd, but he believed his friend was that smart that at the ripe age of thirteen, he would have gotten such a large offer. He never asked what happened, why it made him so distant and cold, because every time he tried, Stiles shut the conversation down within seconds.Stiles post-boarding school was different. Colder, stronger. He wasn't flaunting over Lydia like he had been for years, nor was he focused on the one thing that made him happy before, lacrosse. Scott's mother told him it was depression, and he believed every word of it.That is, until Scott was turned into a werewolf. Because Stiles didn't say how crazy the idea was, or that it was impossible, he stated it like a fact. Like he knew this was what it was. And the events after made him believe that it wasn't just a boarding school.Because a new kid showed up in town, and Stiles' entire world came crashing down the moment he saw their face.
Relationships: Allison Argent/Scott McCall
Comments: 26
Kudos: 301





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles woke up with a jolt, clawing at the sheets around his body, frantically trying to calm his pounding heart. Because it felt like _hands_ , hands clawing at him, pulling him until his throat was raw and bloody.

He sat there, staring out his window, until a knock came at his door.

"Stiles," his father said, "are you okay?"

With a sigh, he answered. "I'm fine. Sorry for waking you up."

"It's fine. Just--just try to get some sleep, son."

"Yeah, I'll try."

But they both knew that wouldn't happen. Stiles didn't sleep that much, not as much as he should. The nightmares came too often for him to sleep with ease. He was used to it, though. It was normal. It was fine if it was only nightmares.

He wished his dad could understand. It had to be hard for him, to have everything dumped on him so suddenly, but Stiles just wished he could _know_ what it felt like. To know how it felt to feel like you were living someone else's life, using their own name--to not identify with anything that was yours.

Stiles didn't try to sleep. There was no point. His dad knew that, too, but they always said empty words to comfort themselves.

Before The Summer, Stiles had wore flannel shirts and superhero print tees. Now it was down to practical things, things that he knew wouldn't restrict mobility. T-shirts, cotton jackets, jeans, tennis shoes--things that held familiarity. Rationally, he knew he should branch out, that most people's style didn't stay the same after two years. But he liked it, it made him feel comfortable.

His jeep was loud, and even though he always thought _hey, this isn't very safe if you were trying to make a quick getaway_ , he kept the car. Because Stiles didn't need to make getaways anymore. He had been Stiles Stilinski for two years. The most danger he got into was a fight with Jackson Whittemore in freshman year after Jackson grabbed him by the back of his shoulders. It didn't bring back good memories, and he punched him square in the nose. That was hard to explain to Scott.

School didn't start until tomorrow. Which left him one day to do whatever he wanted. He liked summer, it meant less time at school, surrounded by teenagers. The idea of going back to school made him want to bash his head into his nightstand. 

He got dressed, grabbed his phone and one other thing, and without saying a word to his dad, he left out the front door, immediately breaking into a jog. His dad said he should try out for track or cross country, but it didn't seem right to him. Stiles ran to clear his mind. Running for others seemed too close to . . . it.

Running comforted him. He could run for miles. Running until he couldn't breathe made his mind clear, yet it brought back everything he tried to hide. His dad said running until he got blisters was a self-destructive habit, and he told him that so was eating enough oil to give himself a heart attack. His dad didn't criticize his coping mechanisms after that.

Only a few cars passed him, most people hadn't even woken up. It was nicer that way. Before, he ran through the woods, but his dad made him stop once someone nearly got abducted. Now he had to run past people's houses, which earned him several odd looks.

It was fine by him.

-

The moment his dad's car left, Stiles was back out the door. He had only been home for an hour, he'd spent most of his day by the creek, but as soon as he got home, he could tell his father was busy by the way he became flustered. As Stiles typically did, he listened in, and found out that a dead body had been found in the woods. Or rather half of one, and he hadn't caught which part they actually found. Now they had to find the other half.

Stiles was paranoid, and slightly curious, and decided he needed Scott to come with him. Scott was trustworthy, and his best friend. Or rather his only friend. He wasn't very popular, not since he freaked out and punched Jackson.

When he reached Scott's house, a small part of him wanted to ring the doorbell and hide, to freak Scott out, but he didn't. If someone did that to him, he'd be mad. 

When Scott made it downstairs nearly a minute later after he rang, his hair was wet from what Stiles guessed was a shower, and his eyebrows were knitted together in confusion. "What are you doing here? It's late."

"Like that's ever stopped us before?" Stiles shrugged. "But, anyway, I saw my dad leave twenty minutes ago. Dispatch called, they're bringing in every officer from the Beacon department and even state police."

"For what?"

"Two joggers found a body in the woods," Stiles said, keeping his tone level at the _body_ part.

"A dead body?"

"No, a body of water." Stiles rolled his eyes. "Yes, dumbass, a dead body."

"You mean like, murdered?"

"Nobody knows yet," he said. "Just that it was a girl, around her twenties. But probably."

"Hold on, if they found the body, then what are they looking for?"

"That's the thing," he sighed. "They only found half."

Scott's eyes widened slightly. "Half? Stiles, there's no way we're going to look for it."

"We're going to look for it." Stiles slapped a hand down onto his shoulder. "And, I forgot to bring my car, so . . ."

"No, there's no way--I'm not running all the way there!"

"Unless you have a better idea, we're doing it."

"I hate you."

"Nah, you love me."

-

In the end, they went back to Stiles' house and picked up the Jeep. Scott said he'd rather die than run several miles, and by the way he was gasping from asthma, Stiles was sure he meant it.

When they made it to the reserve, it was almost ten at night. Stiles wasn't tired in the slightest, but Scott had already yawned three times since they started in the car.

"We're seriously doing this?" Scott asked as they stepped over the metal chain.

"You're the one who's always bitching that nothing ever happens in this town," Stiles shrugged. "Here's some interesting."

"I was trying to get a good night's sleep before practice tomorrow."

"Right," Stiles mused, "because sitting on the bench is such a grueling effort."

"No," he huffed, "because I'm playing this year. In fact, I'm making first line."

"Sure."

Ever since Scott had made the team, he had barely gotten any playing time. Stiles almost tried out with him, but he had a panic attack after he thought he saw someone too familiar, and he decided maybe lacrosse wasn't for him.

"Just out of curiosity, which half of the body are we looking for?"

Stiles frowned as he stepped over a log. "Uh, I don't know. I didn't get that far."

Scott laughed silently. "And, uh, what if whoever killed the body is still out here?"

He shrugged, like it wasn't too concerning to him. "If they are, we'll just deal with it later."

They started to climb up a hill, and Scott quickly became out of breath. "It's great to know that you--that you planned this out with your usual attention to detail."

"I know, how smart of me?"

He blinked once he got to the top, staring at the leaves by his feet blankly. Curse the word 'smart.' Why did that have to be a word that seemed to bring so many things back?

"Uh," Scott gasped, leaning against a tree, "maybe the severe asthmatic should be the one holding the flashlight, huh?"

He wheezed and took a puff of his inhaler.

As Stiles walked forward he cursed to himself, yanking Scott down with him as he laid on his stomach, the flashlight shut off. Of course, he had to run right into the police's search. He couldn't have picked a worse spot. Not for him, he might be able to make it around if he was quiet enough. But Scott? With his asthma, he was as quiet as a small child.

"Okay," he whispered, "we're going to run, opposite of them, deeper into the woods."

"I'm asthmatic!" Scott hissed. "I can't keep up with you!"

"Well, try. I really don't want to get grounded tonight."

Stiles took off in a sprint, making sure to keep himself as silent as he could. Oh, shit, shit, no--

He slipped, his tennis shoes to slick from mud, and fell straight in front of a dog. He scrambled back, eyes wide as its jaws snapped just inches from his feet. _It's just a dog,_ he reminded himself, _dogs aren't that scary._

"Hang on, hang on!" Double shit. "This little delinquent belongs to me."

Stiles cringed as he shielded himself from the flashlight glaring into his face. "Dad, uh, how are you doing?"

"So, do you listen into all my phone calls?"

"No." He sighed at his dad's look. "Not the boring ones."

"Now, where's your usual partner in crime?"

"Who, Scott?" Stiles shrugged. "Scott's home. He said he wanted to get a good night's sleep for the first day back. It's just me."

His dad didn't seem to believe him. Which was warranted, since even before he knew how to lie well.

"Scott?" he yelled, shining his flashlight deep into the woods. "You out there? Scott?"

Stiles hoped Scott didn't get hurt. He had no idea where he'd went.

His dad sighed and put a rain-wet hand on his shoulder. "Well, young man, I'm gonna walk you back to your car. And you and I are going to have a conversation about a little something called invasion of privacy."

Stiles groaned as they walked through the woods. "I'm familiar with it."

"Good. And while we're at it, no running for a week."

"What? But--dad! Why don't you just take away my car?"

"Because you'd just run everywhere," he said, waving a hand in explanation. "See? The only way to get you to listen is that, nothing else is important to you."

Stiles threw his head back as he groaned. "You're insufferable."

"Yeah, maybe."


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles debated on not going to school. He almost didn't, but when his dad saw that he was still in bed way later than he usually was, he ripped the covers off and said that no, he wasn't skipping school, he already skipped too many last year. Stiles wanted to argue that half of the stuff had been forcibly programmed into his brain, but his dad didn't like when he talked about that. He said that humor was "not coping" and "traumatizing." Stiles, for one, found it hilarious.

By the time he got to school, Scott had already arrived on his bike, and he hopped out to join his friend. If he didn't have Scott by his side, Stiles isn't sure he would have made it this far.

"Stiles," he said, pulling him aside to stand by an empty bench, away from the crowd, "I have to tell you something."

"Uh, okay? Is it about me leaving you last night? Because that wasn't consensual, and now I'm grounded, so . . ."

"No, it's--look."

Scott pulled up his shirt to reveal a bandage stuck to his side. "See?"

"It's . . . a bandage," Stiles observed. "With a little blood on it. What's the point here?"

"Last night, something bit me," he said. "I lost my phone, so I couldn't call you, but it was big."

"What? Like a wild cat or something?"

"No, I think it was a wolf." Stiles nearly tripped over his own feet. "It was too dark to see anything, but I swear, it looked just like one. And it howled, too."

Stiles nodded, feeling sick to his stomach. "That's--that's weird. California doesn't have wolves, not for like, sixty years. Maybe it was a cougar or something."

Yeah. A cougar. It couldn't be what he was thinking. They had been run off years ago.

"Really?"

"Yeah, dude, there's no wolves in California." He shouldered his bag tighter, his nails digging into the strap. "There's no way it was a wolf."

"Well," Scott said, "if you don't believe me about the wolf, then you're definitely not going to believe me when I tell you I _found the body_."

Stiles' eyes widened. "Wait, really?"

"Unfortunately," he sighed. "I'm gonna have nightmares for a month."

Stiles laughed. "Ha, loser."

His dad said making fun of nightmares--especially his own--wasn't funny. Stiles found it hilarious.

Lydia walked by, and Stiles looked for a moment, earning an exasperated look from Scott. "Seriously, Stiles," he said, "what happened to Lydia? You liked her since you were in third grade and then you just . . . stopped."

"I just thought it wasn't important anymore," he shrugged. "Let's go, I don't want to be late."

"You, being scared about being late? What have you done with Stiles?"

"Oh, shut up."

-

"I say you should just . . . not do lacrosse," Stiles offered, pointing a finger at him. "That way I don't have to watch Jackson have an ego-fest for an hour."

"I'm going to play this year," Scott said. "I'm going to make first line, just wait and see."

"Sure, buddy."

"What's that on your neck?"

Stiles felt his stomach drop as he ran a hand over his neck. "What do you mean?"

"I thought I saw--" Coah Flintstock called for Scott. "I'll see you after, okay?"

"Yeah--yeah, I'll see you after."

He kept rubbing his neck as he made his way to the bleachers, as if that would tell him his answer. He had to go back inside. He had to find a mirror. It only showed up when they were around, and it was impossible, but he _had_ to know. Something told him that everything wasn't right.

Stiles stopped short, his breath caught in his throat. Not even ten feet away a teenager was stretching, wearing a Beacon Hills cross country jersey. He couldn't breathe. Oh god, he couldn't breathe.

They looked up, and that's when Stiles knew--there was no way it wasn't him. It had to be. It couldn't be anyone else but him.

In two seconds flat, they closed the distance, and nearly knocked each other off their feet. Stiles hugged him tight, his fingers cramping from how hard he was holding on.

"Thomas," he breathed out, "holy shit. What are you doing here?"

"I live here," he said. "What the hell are you doing here, Minho?"

"My family just moved here, my dad got a new job at some insurance agency." Reluctantly, he pulled away, his hands still on his shoulders, looking over Stiles' face like it was the last time he'd ever see him. "Holy _shit_. I thought I'd never see you again."

"Me too." Stiles could barely think. "Have you seen anyone else? Am I the only one you've seen since--since then?"

"No, I got into contact with some of them," Minho explained. "It was hard, the government purposely tried to space us out. But I found some of them. Frypan's in Chicago, Gally's in Ontario, Harriet's in Atlanta--"

"Newt," Thomas finally spit out, "have you heard from Newt?"

Last time he had seen him, he was alive. He had stabbed him--he hadn't meant to, it just _happened_ \--and he was recovering, but then his dad came and got him and he didn't know what happened after. Was Newt still alive? Was he safe? Did he hate him?

"Newt? Yeah, that shank's still alive." Minho's eyes went wide at the slang. "Shit, I haven't said that in so long . . . but he's in Los Angeles with some foster family. I talked to him a week ago, to say I was moving out here, and we could finally meet up. And guess what?" He didn't wait for an answer. "He has a _sister_. Remember that girl from Group B? Lizzy, the one that almost took your head off with her pistol? That's his sister."

He blinked, trying to take in all the information. "That's . . . wow. And he's alright?"

"Yeah, he looks happy." Minho smiled. "Shit, he's going to be pissed he lived this close to you and didn't even know it. He looked for you for years before Gally finally convinced him it was time to stop."

"He--he looked for me?"

He couldn't believe it. Newt looked for him.

"Newt didn't want to leave you," Minho promised. "I swear it. When he found out you were gone, he was pissed. If you thought him in the Scorch was angry after that lightning storm, shit, you would have thought someone lit him on fire."

He couldn't believe it. "Oh my god."

"Yeah, dude." Minho clapped a hand on his back. "Uh, not to worry you, but there's a guy making his way over here, and he's the one who just beat everyone in lacrosse. So, I hope you're friends, because I have to keep a clean record this time."

He groaned, prepared to see Jackson, but instead he saw Scott. Wait, Scott could actually play lacrosse? Since when?

"Hey, Stiles--" Scott's excitement fell when he saw Minho, who was standing very close to him. "Who's this?"

"This is--uh, this is--"

"Minho," he answered. So he'd kept his name. "Minho Song."

"Oh, cool." Scott still seemed weary. "And you two know each other . . .?"

"Yeah, we went to a sports school together back when we were kids," Minho said with a smile. "I don't think you went there."

Well, shit. Stiles had told Scott it was an elite school for smart children. And, of course, Minho said it was an athletic one.

"Right. So, uh, I was thinking about heading back to the reserve. To find my phone and inhaler."

"Oh, yeah, those are kinda important." He looked to Minho, as if he'd vanish if he left. "I don't--"

"I'll just come with," Minho said, smiling in his typical Minho-way as he wrapped an arm around Stiles' shoulders. "I needed to do some running out there anyway."

-

"How do you even know this guy?" Scott whispered as Minho effortlessly jumped over the small creek. "I thought you went to a smart school, not a sports one?"

"It was both," he said, thankful he knew how to lie. "As you can tell, I wasn't in the athletic one."

"But you were athletic when you came back." Of course, Scott didn't believe him. Just great. "What kind of school was it? What was the name?"

"Why?"

"I'm just wondering."

"It isn't important."

"I'm not stupid," Scott said. "I know something happened at that school. You've never been the same since you came back."

"Wow, look!" he said sarcastically. "You have eyes!"

Minho snorted from up ahead.

"And there's another thing," Scott whispered, low enough that Minho couldn't hear. "I think something's happening to me."

"What do you mean?"

"I can hear things I shouldn't be able to hear. Smell things I shouldn't be able to. It's crazy."

Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat. "And all this started since the bite?"

"Yeah. What if it's infected? And I'm dying?"

"You're not dying," he said. "Trust me, dying doesn't look like this. You're fine."

He most certainly was not fine. He was bit by a werewolf. And everything was awful, because everything supernatural was supposed to stop once he was free from WICKED. So why didn't it? Why did it have to follow him? And why Scott?

"So, you're asthmatic?" Minho asked. "If you are, you sure know how to play lacrosse with it."

"It's, uh, not been effecting me today. It's one of my good days."

Scott didn't have good days. He only had constant severe asthma.

"Oh, cool. Just let me know if you need to slow down, alright?"

Stiles snorted at the look Minho shot him, quickly trying to cover it up with a cough. Because _Minho,_ slowing down? It sounded impossible.

"So, you're looking for your inhaler?" he asked. "What's it look like?"

"An inhaler." Scott blinked in confusion. "I don't know, I've never thought about that."

"Well, we'll find it. But who knows, maybe you won't need it."

Stiles wanted to tell Minho to shut the hell up. Scott didn't need to know, not right now. Not ever. Stiles couldn't deal with more supernatural--Minho was here. If anything more happened, he didn't know what he'd do. It felt like too much of his old life was coming forward, too much of--

Minho tensed, his hand instinctively going to his back pocket, where he always kept his pocket knife, and Stiles went for his. He didn't even think about it. In less than three seconds, his knife was out and his muscles were coiled tightly.

It was Derek Hale. Derek Hale, a werewolf that had vacated town with the others when their family died in a suspicious house fire. A werewolf that had been outside of Beacon Hills since Stiles arrived.

Wordlessly, Derek threw Scott his phone and inhaler, which he caught with ease. "Thanks." Scott couldn't think of anything else to say, not until Derek was several yards away, and he turned to Stiles with wide eyes.

"Dude," he whispered, "who the hell was that?"

"Derek Hale," Stiles answered. "He used to live here. He's supposed to be in New York, last I heard."

"Why?"

"No reason." Stiles met Minho's eyes. "We should go. I--Scott, I need to talk to Minho. Can I drop you off at your house?"

"What? Stiles, what's going on? Who is he?"

"We'll talk about this later. Just trust me, alright?"

Scott didn't seem like he trusted Stiles. Maybe it was because 'Stiles' wasn't entirely there anymore.


End file.
